Rehab
by Bumblebee41
Summary: Miley Stewart had always dreamed of becoming a star. Now she can get her chance, with all the ways of celebrity life. But what happens when drinking and drugs gets the best of her? They send her to Rehab.Will she meet true love there to? Liley femslash.
1. The pressures of a star

**A/N: Okay so, this is a story originally by Randi Reisfeld. It's a great book; I know I personally love it. It's one of my favorites. So enough, let's get on with the story.**

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT own the book Rehab, nor the show Hannah Montana. Just the idea for a cover.**

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Rehab

Chapter one

"And … _action! _We're rolling, people!"

On the director's command, the chalk clapboard clicked and Miley Stewart slipped into her TV character, undercover spy Hannah Montana.

"Thanks for getting here so quickly, Jack," Miley purred, patting the cushion of the luxe Armani Casa sofa.

"You said it was urgent. What's the emergency?" Gabe Lammatti, the actor playing Jack, delivered his lines coolly, while his eyes roamed over Miley's curvy body, encased in a short, ultratight dress.

"There's something we need to do, in _private_." Miley was supposed to deliver that line suggestively, cross her legs seductively, signal her intentions, just as she had done during the first two takes of that same scene.

This time, Miley couldn't do it.

The scene made her skin crawl. It was so sleazy, and not at all in keeping with her clever, canny character, Hannah. Without warning, Miley veered off script.

"We need to talk Jack," she said instead, drawing herself up, facing him straight on. "Some new information has come to light."

"This is really surprising," the actor responded, trying to hide his confusion. "This is the first time we've been alone in your apartment. You said you weren't ready for …" He trailed off with a wink and a sly smile. Practically foaming at the mouth.

"Cut!" The director's voice boomed. Noel Riggs, whose instincts Miley usually respected, was obviously unhappy with her ad lib.

"Sorry," Miley said, ready to redo the scene the way it was written.

"No need to apologize, Miley! You're a genius-It's better you're way!" Miley started to relax, when he dropped the B-bomb: "But…"

"What?" she asked warily.

"You're sweating, nervous, uncomfortable. I'm not diggin' it."

Her character, Hannah, _should_ be uncomfortable, Miley believed. In this episode the supposedly savy spy had fallen for this Jack character, only to uncover evidence proving him to be a fraud and killer. She was setting up a seduction scene as a trap. She _should_ be nervous! Not that Miley would ever say that to the director. Rule number one for a newcomer in her first role: Never, ever, disagree with the director.

Have your agent do it for you later.

Miley Stewart had turned out to be a quick study in all things showbiz. She'd arrived in Hollywood only a year ago and _Spywitness Girls_ was her first professional credit; Hannah Montana, her first role ever!

Against all the odds, both the show and Miley herself had become breakout hits. Back in September, when it debuted, _Spywitness Girls _got slammed with harsh, negative reviews. Critics dismissed it as nothing more than retread of the old _Charlie's Angels_ series. Ratings were poor; pundits placed it on the "about-to-be-canceled" list. A funny thing happened on the way to oblivion, though.

Internet savy fans found the show, blogged about it, and started a viral campaign to support it. Fast-forward eight months to May, and twenty-two episodes later. _Spywitness Girls_ lifted, phoenix-like, from the buzz challenged basement to become bigger than those (super) _Heros_, found by viewers more times than _Lost_, was chatted about more than _Gossip Girl_. Of the three glamorous stars, one got singled out as the fan favorite. Miley Stewart.

Least experienced, last one cast, petite as an Olsen twin with Fergie-licious curves, the nineteen year old newcomer was the people's choice, the hottest starlet guys would most like to date, and girls would most like to hang with. Miley was surprised only in that it happened so quickly. She'd always been popular, a true charisma girl, but that was back home in her Seattle suburb. She thought it'd take way longer to shine in the diamond dappled pool of Hollywood talent. She was, to say the least, unprepared for what followed.

Fan frenzy led to media madness. Magazines, online columns, and TV entertainment shows wanted her; designers fell all over themselves for the honor of dressing her. All the hot clubs cleared the best tables; offers of big money came at her so quickly, Miley felt like the head spinning girl in _The Exorcist_. Except without the spewing.

She'd also snared the hottest boyfriend in town, underwear model Austin Rain. _(Swoon, swoon.)_ They'd met at a club a couple of weeks ago. Their connection was instant, deep in a totally superficial way… but still.

Speaking of, thinking of, led her thoughts back to last night. Austin had been a wild man at the new hot spot. Leopoles dancing, drinking, vibing with her and her friends. And so caring and attentive when she accidentally fell off the stripper pole. It wasn't her fault, it was the damn shoes. The Pradas with those to die for heels nearly became the death of her, or at least of her ankle. Which twisted and turned in ways that most joints, especially those needed to hold you upright, should not.

Austin had slipped her a couple of painkillers, which she'd downed on the spot. As insurance, she'd popped a few more for breakfast this morning. But by now, Miley had been working under the hot lights for hours; they'd done worn off. Another reason, though Miley would never tell her director, she looked uncomfortable doing the scene.

Director Noel was now signaling that were ready to go. The actors began again, only to get through their first line before hearing him shout "Cut!"

Through the camera lens, Noel had noticed beads of sweat across Miley's forehead. The director was not "diggin' it." He snapped his fingers, and summoned what Miley liked to call the "Beauty Squad." A phalanx of assistants, bearing soft towels, lip gloss and powder, curling iron and electric warming booties, materialized. Bypassing the actor playing Jack, they were all there to cater to Miley. A star's gotta rock the camera, and _that's_ a no sweat zone.

Just then, Mikayla Gomez, Miley's best friend and personal assistant, rushed onto the set. "Hey, Miles," she whispered," does your ankle hurt? Do you need another Vicodin for the pain?"

Oh, man, she was soooo tempted, she could feel herself twitching. Miley knew she shouldn't. How many times had she been warned about getting addicted? And yet. She was tired and in pain. She hated the dress, could barely tolerate the actor playing Jack, whose aftershave was to gag for or from. Whatever, it made her nauseous.

Nailing this particular scene, much as she abhorred it, was crucial. It was the episode ender; the last show of the season, expected to go through the rating roof. It was huge. The director had bowed to her way of playing it. She ought to just get it wrapped.

Miley quickly swallowed the oblong pill.

Good thing, too, she'd think later. Without the mellow painkiller, she might've spit at "Jack" on camera. During the break, he'd apparently decided that if Miley could ad lib, so could he.

Just as she said the line, "Some new information has come to light," he "spontaneously" pulled her to him, stuck his tongue in her mouth, and cupped her breast all in one fluid, revolting move. Not even Austin got away with that unless invited. And yet, Noel let it go, allowing the scene to play out until the other Spywitness Girls came crashing into the scene, guns blazing, to arrest the unsuspecting pervo perp. By that time, the word "Cut!" had never sounded so sweet to Miley's ears

She wiped her mouth off, while the erstwhile "Jack" shot her a self-satisfied, slimy grin. "Surprised ya, huh?"

"Understatement," she growled.

"Aw, come on, Miley, look how angry you got. It made the scene work." Miley made herself a promise: If she ever did get more clout on the show, this tool would not be guest starring on it anytime soon. As in, ever.

Clueless, he gave her that thumb up, pinky down signal for "Call me." That's the new "Let's do lunch." It's just as insincere.

The set was packed. Everyone even vaguely connected with _Spywitness Girls _was on hand to bask in the show's success, now that they'd wrapped the final episode for the season. Producers, network suits, studio bigwigs, casting directors, publicists, everyone's agents, managers, spouses, and significant others swarmed the set. It was _Entourage_ times a thousand.

Champagne corks popped, and back patting, hugging, shoulder rubs, and air kisses spread like a virus. Miley wished she could slip out the back door and head to her trailer. She was into celebrating as much as the next girl, but not with this bunch of glad handers. She was looking forward to the weekend, when there'd be a huge wrap party at an exclusive club. All her friends would be there; she'd be with Austin. _That_ would rock!

But pulling a disappearing act now was not gonna happen. There were too many people waiting to see her, specifically the showbiz professionals called Team Miley, or her "handlers."

First was tall, tan, regal Alex Grant, super agent. It was his responsibility to get Miley acting roles. The bigger, the better. Alex earned 15 percent of Miley's income.

Rudy Marpole, rotund, cherub cheeked, and often verklempt, was her manager. His job was to oversee her entire career, and guide her appropriately. Rudy's cut of the Miley pie was 10 percent.

Rounding out the trio was publicist Milo Prince, a chic she, even though Milo is a trendy name for boys. Her job was to make Miley into a household name, in the most positive way a starlet can be known. Milo earned a hefty monthly fee for her services.

Alex was first to congratulate her. "Miley! You were amazing. This is why they call you the 'franchise.' Without you, this show doesn't exist."

"A bald faced lie, but thank you, Alex." Miley stood on the tiptoes of her high heels to give her agent a peck on the cheek.

Rudy, a head shorter than Alex, had real tears in his eyes, and was choked with emotion as he wrapped her in a bear hug. "Sweetie pie, you're the icing in the cake with the cherry on top. That's all I can say, Miley. You… you made that last scene sing."

"Sing? Like an _American Idol_ reject maybe," Miley quipped. Rudy, unlike Alex, actually believed what he said. Miley wasn't sure which she preferred: the slick liar or the earnest doofus. They were both true Hollywood types.

Alex, with a furtive glance around the room, bent to whisper in Miley's ear. "I'm hearing good things about your movie audition."

_The Chrome Hearts Club._ That's what it was called; the ginormous feature film Miley had unexpectedly gotten an audition for. Unexpected, because the film was "serious," and she wasn't even on the short list of big named actresses who might get the starring role. She had Alex to think for even getting her the audition. But to think she'd get the role was actually absurd. She was about to give Alex a reality check when a balding, bespectacled TV producer inserted himself between client and agent. A producer whose name Miley could not for the life of her recall, regaled her with over the top compliments.

"I laughed, I cried, OMG, Miley, you're the best. So natural!" In his wake, other VIP's followed, variations on the same worship theme ensued. Miley needed to slip into the role of grateful, modest ingénue.

Miley wasn't disingenuous, she truly loved being complimented, but these people are acting like she'd just won a Noble prize based on one lousy scene. It would take a better actress than her to believably bask in the glow of bullshit. When publicist Milo pulled her away from the adoring massed, she was truly grateful.

"Some others have been waiting to see you," Milo pointed toward a gaggle of young fans, herded behind a rope at the back of the soundstage. They were tween girls mostly, armed with cameras, and photos to autograph.

"What did they win?" Miley asked as they made their way over.

"An essay contest. It's a 'green' thing. They had to come up with original ideas for saving the planet. The top ten won a meet and greet with you. _People_ magazine is covering it."

What tied Miley Stewart to environmental health was a head scratcher, but anytime she got to meet the real fans who'd made her a star, she was genuinely psyched.

It wasn't so long ago, she _was_ them. Worshipping celebrities, wanting to know all about their glamorous lives, dreaming of one day transforming from a regular, ordinary person to a pedestal perching, sparkling star. To be the adored, instead of the adoring. That'd been her, circa all her life.

"Hi, everyone, it's so great to meet you!" Miley exclaimed, walking from one to the next, shaking hands, getting cheek to cheek with them for their cameras. Miley asked questions about recycling, plastic bags, penguins, and hybrids, but basically, all they wanted was to commemorate the moment they'd met a real star. The photographer from _People_ snapped away.

When it was over, Miley started for her dressing room then did an impulsive U-turn. Something was bothering her. She couldn't recall what Noel, the director, had said about her performance. The self-assured starlet kinda wanted his validation.

She found Noel peering into the camera, most likely replaying that last scene. When she tapped him on the shoulder, he whirled around and smiled.

"You really nailed it for us, Miley. We're a lock for next season."

That's it then. All the experts have spoken. If they thought she rocked it, without even liking it, let alone believing it, she must have. She let out the sigh of relief she didn't know she'd been holding in.

* * *

So how do you like it so far? Remember this is from the book Rehab by Randi Reisfeld. You can kinda think of me as doing a cover of it, with Hannah Montana characters. I do promise though that later on in the book it will eventually get into Liley goodness. Please just be patient with me and review.


	2. The Crew

**A/N: Alright I know, I have no excuse for taking so long. But its summer now so yes I will try to continue with this story. Anyways to answer **_**Smiley756**_** question, yes and no. I am doing a cover of the book, but I'm not copying it word for word****. So without further ado I give you…**

Rehab

Chapter 2

"_Hard partying ingénue Miley Stewart made the rounds last night, circling from Teddy's to Les Deux to Leopoles on the Strip, downing shots and dancing the night away. Accompanied by her attached-to-the-hip acolytes, scion-turned-club promoter Jake Ryan, celebrity hatchling, Johnny Collins, and, ahem, "personal assistant" Mikayla Gomez, Miley brought her trademark giggle, sexy wiggle, and (contrary to her wholesome image) overly sexual moves to all the clubs. She stayed longest and latest at Leopoles, where she stripped down to her skivvies, wrapped herself around the club's signature stripper pole, and belted out Beyonce's inescapable "Irreplaceable." Word to the wise, Miley: No one, including you, is irreplaceable."_

Miley had just one foot inside her trailer, eager to peel off her restricting dress and take a shower. Her friends Johnny, Jake, and Mikayla, or better known as Mickey, were hunched over a laptop. Mickey was reading aloud from an online column. She looked up when Miley came in, explaining. "It's from TMZ."

_Of course it is,_ Miley thought. In high school, before she'd come to Hollywood, TMZ had been the go-to website for the juiciest, most salacious gossip. Back then, they sure weren't writing about her and she loved reading it. Now? Not so much.

She should have had expected it, she guesses. Gossip was about the only downside of fame. And as much as she hated the roller coaster ride, she still pursued her dream.

Miley Ray Stewart, also called Miles or just plain Miley, had always dreamed of becoming big when she was younger. Nothing stopped her from pursuing her dream, not even when her mom died. Sure it slowed her down a little bit, but she still had the inspiration from the sad feelings. She knew she was destined for stardom. She grew up with the absolute knowledge of it.

Mostly every one not directly related to her did not see it this way. What shot did she have? Growing up in the outskirts of Crowley Corners; the cross clan had no connections, and not a lot of disposable income. To be clear: she was not_ My Super Sweet 16_ bait; she had little access to plastic let alone cosmetic improvements. No one was going to wave a magic wand let alone a green Bank of America card and whisk her off to Hollywood.

The girl was small-time. Heck there was some times when _she_ even thought she'd never make it. The big dreams had come courtesy of her mom, but once that situation had fizzled, Miley had to settle for the local drama coach, dancing class, piano and singing lessons. She performed in school plays and Community Theater, with her head up, tatas out, optimism undaunted.

Teachers, neighbors, and even the cops had serious reservations about Miley ever making it out of Cowley, let alone all the way to Hollywood. They tsk-tsked her partying, the revolving door boyfriends, staying out late on school nights instead of studying. The nonbelievers pegged her as "most likely to end up reciting today's special at Hooters." None of that fazed her though. Her dad was a Miley-believer; her younger brother, Jackson, worshiped her. But most importantly she believed in herself.

Miley knew her strengths. She could be a very good actress, given the right part. Plus, she attracted people like ants to a picnic.

Partly it was her looks. Guys found her irresistible, a hottie with a tawny-bronze complexion, long brunette hair, huge swimming pool blue eyes that were, her dad used to joke," the size of salad plates". And partly it was her personality. She was friendly to everyone (even the nerds and losers), she never flaunted her A-list status (was not a bitch), was funny, smart, outgoing, and threw the best parties. Everyone in high school had wanted to be on "orbit Miley". Miley wanted in on "orbit showbiz" though. When it happened though, thanks to an insanely amount of inventive series of webisodes on YouTube, one of her Crowley buds actually came with her.

Miley Stewart and Mikayla Gomez grew up on the same block. In grade school they'd become BFF's, always together, so close that Miley's dad used to call them "Mickey and Minnie" for Mikayla and Miley. It felt natural that when Miley, eighteen at the time, got cast in _Spywitness Girls,_ and moved to Los Angeles, Mikayla would come along. Miley dubbed her a "personal assistant," and paid her well for the "job" she'd always done: being her best friend. These days, there were amazing perks to Mikayla's job. The buxom brunette shared the freebies that came Miley's way: luxe designer duds and eye-popping accessories. Mikayla got in to all the cool parties, hung out in private clubs, and met stars. It was like living inside the pages of _Us Weekly_.

The girls had met club scenesters Jonny Collins and Jake Ryan at a party their first week in L.A. Over bottle services and banquette dancing, the foursome had connected. That's been last summer. Now, just shy of a year later, the guys had become Miley and Mikayla's most trusted allies, the inner circle.

Right now, said peeps were relaxing in Miley's trailer, taking turns reading aloud from the gossip blogs and the tabloids. The one from TMZ had recapped last night's antics pretty accurately. Good thing they missed the Vicodin washed down with Ketel One, but Mikayla knitted her brows. "What do they mean by her _'ahem,_ personal assistant'?"

"They're insinuating that you and Miley are friends of Ellen," cracked Johnny, whose lean frame filled a tall, plush armchair. "You know, gay?" At this accusation Miley's and Mikayla's cheeks went red with blush. Both boys laughed at this.

"You should be flattered. They just put you in the same category as Oprah and Lindsey," Jake pointed out.

Miley chuckled while nervously looking at Mikayla, who was trying to desperately cover up her blush, out of the corner of her eye. She use to assume it was only fans devouring tabloids and gossip blogs. But supermarket shoppers and web surfers had nothing on actual Hollywood scenesters and celebrities. They read everything that was written about them. It was like their lives weren't real unless they were mentioned in the media. She decided against over thinking that concept.

"_Miley Stewart-Partying Too Much? Will everyone's favorite shooting star fade too soon, become a falling star? My spies caught her at Leopoles on Sunset, the newest hot spot on the Strip, where she switched clothes with the dancers . . .'"_

Time to tune out. Miley knew how this one from ended. Besides the writer had answered her own question. As long as the tabloids kept covering Miley's every move, fading away anytime soon wasn't likely. She retreated to her private bedroom, and peeled the tiny sticky dress off. Maybe she'd donate it to a needy toddler. Yet, not so long ago _she_ was the one wearing the secondhand clothes. These days though, Miley needed nothing.

Halfway through the_ Spywitness Girls_ season, when everyone realized how popular Miley was becoming, the producers "incentivized" her (a bribe, basically, to ensure her loyalty) by paying her a lot more money, as well as giving her a sleek, silver Airstream trailer to use as a dressing room. It was more like a luxe mobile home: big enough for a full-sized and well-stocked kitchen, a living room, and a private bedroom with its own bathroom. The giving of the Airstream made Miley an envy target.

Her costars, Amber Blue and Ashley Arrigota, the other Spywitness Girls, who was relegated to mere dressing rooms on the set, were incensed. They demanded upgrades-only to be told that _they_ were replaceable. Miley felt guilty about the whole thing. To her, Amber and Ashley were every bit as talented as she was, more sophisticated, genuine beauties, in fact. That viewers had chosen her over them in popularity… well, it wasn't her fault.

Amber had a tempered attitude which had caused her to get on the bad side with the producers, while Ashley just usually followed along with whatever Amber said.

Still, she badly wanted to say something, make a peace offering. Something like "We'll share the trailer. We can rotate- each uses it for a few months." She would have done it, but agent Alex nixed the idea. He'd acted personally offended, sniffing, "Miles, if you can't take being treated like a star, get out of the Porsche." (Word had it; Alex was angling to get her a free sports car from the producers.)

After that, Miley hadn't known how to act toward Amber and Ashley. They had no such problem. They simply iced her. Maybe next season, she thought, but in no way believed, one of them would be the popularity-magnet, and get her own trailer.

"'_Exclusive to the _Enquirer!_ Miley caught canoodling! She fronts with underwear model Austin Rain, but the proof is in the pictures. Check it out: Last night at Leopoles, out eagle-eyed photographer found a sloshed and slovenly Miley Stewart getting busy in a back booth, with her newest boy-toy, Jake Ryan, a charter member of Slackers Ubiquitous. Imagine how proud his hardworking parents, Los Angeles Opera stars Donald and Michelle Ryan, must be!'"_

Mikayla was reading aloud when Miley returned to the living room, showered, toweled off, refreshed. She caught Jake's look. He was trying not to show it, but the item rankled him. Johnny on the other hand, was completely transparent to his glee. He pumped his wiry fist in the air, triumphantly. "This is sick, every single column mentioned Leopoles! It's better than if I wrote them all myself."

"Did you?" Jake asked. "'Because I wouldn't put it past you, dude."

"Awesome, Johnny!" Miley congratulated her friend. "This calls for a toast."

"I'm on it." Jake made a beeline for the fridge.

Miley was sincerely proud of Johnny. The boy was only twenty-one and already the hottest club promoter in town. He did come from a super rich family; what'd been reported in TMZ was true, but Johnny was all about making it on his own. Miley supported that. Not just in concept either. She helped him.

Since most people wanted to be where stars hang out, whenever she appeared at one of Johnny's clubs, other young stars inevitably followed, and the club became the new hot hangout. Business boomed. Miley & company got the best tables, primo bottles of booze, were never carded nor charged. Best of all, Johnny snared a nice commission, and proved to his family he didn't need their money. Totally win-win and Miley was glad to be part of it.

As for the stuff written about her personally? It hadn't taken her long to learn to let it roll. Most of it was exaggerated anyway, though that's not what she'd say if asked in a TV interview. She'd protest it was all a bunch of lies. In other words, _she'd_ lie.

That was how the game was played. Tabloid tattlers, pesky paparazzi, it's the price you pay for fabulous fame, fortune, and for living your dream. Her dad always said nothing in life if free. She thought o fit like paying the toll collector so you can get onto the freeway with the fast lane, or paying two hundred dollars to pass "Go" in Monopoly. It's what's done here.

This particular _Enquirer _exclusive, however, was tougher to brush off. When she and Jake had made out, they'd been … not so sober you might say. Austin had wandered away, Jake saw a paparazzo approaching, and screwing with the guy had seemed like what Ashton does on his show, _Punked!_. A fun goof, just to prove that papar-idiots would believe anything. Only now, in the cold hard light of sobriety Miley wondered if Austin realized it was a joke. Jake, she could tell, was feeling ambushed by the crack about his parents.

Result? The joke had backfired. Time for a beer. Or maybe three.

The friends settled in and toasted Johnny, over and over. Miley hoped Austin would show up. He's said he might, and she kinda needed assurance he know the make-out session was bogus.

"Miles, you're not listening," Mikayla gently scolded her.

"Huh?" Miley had just drained her second beer, the Vicodin was in full effect, and she was settling into a lovely lazy buzz.

"You got a bunch of messages when you were on-set. Don't you want to hear them?"

"Sorry, Mickey. Just tell me the important ones, okay?"

"Your dad called twice, and Jackson once," she recited."Both to remind you about Jackson's soccer game. You said you'd go."

Of course she'd go. Soccer was the biggest thing in her ten year old brother's life. He puffed up like that cartoon Michelin man when his star-sister attended his games. "Can you make sure it's on my calendar?" she asked Mikayla.

"You're already booked on a flight up there."

"You rule Mickey, anything else I should know about?"

"Saved the best for last," she said with a mischievous smile.

"Cole called?" Miley guessed with hope laced in her voice.

"Better! The Ferragamo people called. A certain pebbled-calfskin shoulder bag you ordered is coming by messenger today. You are getting it first."

"Stop! No way! The list for that bag is crazy long. Everyone in Hollywood wants it." Miley's newfound stardom was one thing, but she'd read in _In Touch_ and _InStyle_ that A-listers like Charlize and Scarlett coveted that bag. Why was she getting it first?

"Everyone in Hollywood is not the 'it' girl. To the 'it' girl goes the 'it' bag," Jake slightly tipsy, pronounced.

"She's not the 'it' girl," Johnny corrected Jake," she's the 'next big thing.' That's better."

Miley felt weird being called that, like people expected perfection whether she was out for a Starbucks run or a red carpet appearance. She had to be careful not to make a misstep, anything that might taint her bright, shiny new image. That paled, though, in comparison to being treated like royalty, like in the ridiculously expensive bag-snaring game, she outranked so many celebrated stars. Would she ever get used to it?

"You can borrow the 'it' bag whenever you want," she quickly told Mikayla. Sharing her stardom gotten booty with her friends was a major plus. Speaking of sharing, and friends, and uh… booty… Miley fell into her obsession-du-boy: "Did Austin call?"

Mikayla frowned. Translation: yes. Mikayla was not an Austin fan. She insisted he was a serial suck-up into Miley only because of her current status. Miley didn't believe it. She could tell when a guy was really into her: Austin was. He didn't fawn or bring flowers or text mushy stuff, but he liked the same things she did, dancing, chilling, going out, and having fun.

They blended, photogenically speaking. Austin being the ripped, tan muscle boy model with the short, spiky, chocolate brown hair, and Miley being the curvy, brunette TV star with the ever ready smile and blue twinkling eyes. They looked good on each other. It wouldn't be long before they'd get a nickname like Zanessa or Brangelina. Miley wanted Misten.

Things were going well in the career matchup department. She was the star of a hit TV series; he had a new billboard for boy-thongs on which his body looked like carved marble. None of which impressed Mikayla." He wears guy liner! He puts lifts in his shoes and I just bet he stuffs his-"That last bit, Miley could've told her, was not true.

"Stop stalling, Mickey, what did he say?"

Mikayla sighed before answering. "That he got held up, he can't see you this afternoon, and he'll catch you later at Les Deux. Or, as he pronounces it, Lay Doo. Which probably refers to his two favorite things to do there."

"So he didn't take high school French." Miley waved her off. "Trust me. There are other areas in which he excels." She said wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

"Sorry, Miles. But it's in the best friend rule book that I make sure you don't get hurt. Being the 'next big thing' can't protect you from everything, you know."

**A/N: So I hope you've enjoyed this. Once again I'm extremely sorry about the updating status, I will try very hard to update this and be loyal to all of y'all. Thank ya for your support!**


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